One Foot In Front of the Other

Our sweet Sheltie, Betty, passed away this week.  We made the appointment with the vet on Tuesday morning.  Late that afternoon, our sweet girl died peacefully in our arms. Betty trusted us completely.  We knew she was suffering, but her quality of life was still pretty good.  Finally, the last couple of days, we knew she had turned a corner, and that we had to make good on a promise we had made to her when we brought her home.  We would do our best to give her a happy life, and we would do right by her at the end. She was not afraid when she died.  Leaning against us, she quietly slipped from this life to the next -  whatever that is for a wonderful, loving animal. Betty was not our child, but we loved her.  Her life was important to us.  She offered us devotion and companionship for over 15 years.  We fed and cared for her all of her life.  In return, she loved all three of us with everything she had. This experience has reminded me that our expressions of love in this life a

I've been keeping up with a blog written by a young mother dealing with her infant child's terminal illness.  She details her agony as she watches her baby lose his grip on life bit by bit.  It is understandable that she feels betrayed by God.   I think those of us who have to deal with our child's mortality struggle every day with questions that aren't easily answered, and probably don't have answers in this life. How does a parent live, week after week, knowing that every day that passes is one day closer to a crisis, a fall, the loss of speech, the loss of function?   What makes it possible to lift yourself up when a ten minute encounter with your child is so emotionally devastating that you can't get your breath?  Faith. What is faith?  "Faith is the assurance of things hoped for; the evidence of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1)   Here's a confession:  I don't pray for my son to be physically healed from this disease.  It's not that

I used to like to think about statistics.  Statistics made me feel safe.  If something was "statistically unlikely" it meant I really didn't have to worry about it all that much. For instance, our family was in a serious car accident when Alan was about 8 years old.  My dad was driving, my mom, my sister, Alan, and I were driving back from my grandmother's house after Thanksgiving dinner.  A driver ran a stop sign and we hit each other going 65 miles an hour.  The car was totaled, my mom and sister were hospitalized, I had a back injury and Alan was unhurt.  So, statistically speaking, I would probably never be in another accident.  Check that off the list. Getting on a airplane never bothered me much.  After all, it was much more likely that I would be seriously hurt or killed in a car crash than in a plane accident.  And, considering the fact I'd already been involved in a car crash I was statistically unlikely to be in a plane crash.  Check that off the lis

Two days ago, we took Alan to his psychiatrist.  Alan was unusually happy when we arrived to pick him up.  He smiled and laughed.  He grinned when we told jokes.  The happy young man we thought we had lost was right in front of us. We wanted to soak it in, to milk the experience for all it was worth.  I found myself touching him, smiling, telling him how proud I was of him.  It was as though a window opened and a sweet spring breeze was swirling around us. At the office, the receptionist asked Alan to "take a seat."  Grinning, he bent over and picked up the small metal chair.  "You mean you want me to take the seat with me?"  He chuckled and then sat down.  "I'm just kidding." Once we were with the doctor, Alan detailed a delusion that he was so convinced of we didn't try to contradict his thought process.  He was so happy, so positive, it just didn't matter.   The next time we see him he may be angry and upset, which makes days like this